


Contractually-Mandated Voyeurism

by gloss



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: Community: femslashficlets, F/F, Post-Movie, Texts From Last Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 14:50:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4064044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nancy loves watching Susan. And she's getting paid for it!</p>
<p>(Post-movie, but no real spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Contractually-Mandated Voyeurism

[(517):](http://textsfromlastnight.com/Text-Replies-62357.html) **Who knew that showing someone your boobs would make them stop crying**

 

"Blimey," Nancy breathed, making the word at least seven syllables longer. She gripped the edge of her desk and pushed a little ways back, then pulled herself forward. "You're amazing, you are. A right corker."

Halfway around the world, Susan finished doing up the buttons of her black silk blouse. When she looked up, because the viz-comm was hidden in her hairline, Nancy lost the ideal angle on Susan's perfect cleavage. "You're going all wibbly-wobbly English again."

When Nancy was excited, she was prone to getting carried away. Susan was the first person since her great-aunt Matthew (long story) to find it charming.

"Eh?" the informant, a Norwegian neo-Nazi, asked as he wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and blinked away the last of his tears. His face was blotchy from weeping, but the quick flash Susan had given him seemed to have done the trick, brought him around to calm.

"Not talking to you," Susan barked.

He whimpered.

She brought her riding crop down on the table in front of him. He, and Nancy, jumped half out of their chairs. "You! Tell me where the bearer bonds are!"

"My lady..." he started, then shrugged helplessly.

Susan was undercover as Ilsa-Eva Scheißeschlucken, head of a long-underground Bormann cell, looking to expand both its financial reach and recruiting efforts. Head to toe, she was every inch, plus the extra six on her stilettoes, the femme-fatale-fascist. Her wig was bright platinum, her accent a little Bavarian, a lot Transylvanian, her ensemble creaky black leather and susurrating silk, her whole demeanour cable-TV dominatrix. 

In Nancy's opinion -- which was hardly unbiased, Susan would remind her -- she was doing an absolutely marvelous job. 

Simply _rocking_ this mission.

The Norwegian sniffled and said, "I cannot. They will kill me."

Susan leaned over the table and ran the tip of the crop down the guy's face -- nose, chin, throat -- then tapped the hollow of his throat. A little more pressure and he wheezed for breath. "I can kill you thirteen different ways from where I'm standing. Or I can protect you. With everything I have, everything I _am_. Which would you prefer?"

Nancy was staring at her monitor, mouth hanging open, rapidly drying out. The feed from Susan dominated the screen; to the right was a wireframe representation of the small apartment building in which Susan was meeting the mole. Infrared blobs moved through the narrow passages, supplemented when possible with CCTV feeds and the occasional blip of audio from nearby mobile devices.

"How's it going?" Elaine leaned over Nancy's chair, nudging her hand off the touchpad in order to dial up the zoom. She smelled like really expensive perfume, the kind sold by women who refused to let on whether they understood English. Nancy counted to five and then breathed out her anxiety.

It didn't help. She still wanted to whimper with fear. This was like having a hungry Burmese python draped over your shoulder, but colder, scalier, far, far more intimidating. 

"I asked," Elaine spoke with deliberate, strained patience, "how. Is. It. Going, Agent Artingstall?"

There were hours upon hours of warnings and meetings and evaluations in Elaine's seemingly-simple question. Don't make me regret fast-tracking your green card, Elaine was saying, and There's a reason partners aren't partners.

Susan had giggled at that last remark, which earned a look from Elaine that froze Nancy's blood for at least the next fortnight.

Sorry, Susan had said, still giggling. You sound like someone in Alice in Wonderland: Partners aren't partners, calloo callay!

Maybe it was Susan's repeated success in the field, maybe it was simply Elaine's recognition that Susan had bigger balls than the rest of the field agents combined, but Elaine actually dipped her head and cracked a smile.

Off with our heads! Nancy had chimed in, but no one was laughing any longer.

"Fine, fine," Nancy replied hastily now. She tried to shrink a bit from Elaine's bony arm, but there was no escape. So she did what she could to concentrate on the facts before her. Lovely, helpful facts, they were always her best friend. "The contact is proving reticent, but I think we all know that Susan's going to break him, sooner or later."

In her ear, Susan chuckled at that, then abruptly slapped the Norwegian across the face. "Tell me! Or suffer the direst of consequences!"

"Nasty," Nancy whispered and Susan replied, "You know it."

"All right," Elaine said, finally withdrawing. "Tell her to stay on top of him."

Nancy gasped theatrically. "I certainly will not!"

Elaine narrowed her eyes and shook her head. "Really, Agent? Are we still _this_ juvenile?"

Nancy bit her lip, glanced back at the screen, then met Elaine's gaze. "No, ma'am. Well, yes, actually, but I -- we -- I'll try to keep it under control."

Every evaluation Nancy had ever received noted her almost compulsive honesty; Susan said it was one of her best qualities (along with her hands, her bum, and that one great trick she did with her tongue), but, again, she was alone in that opinion.

"I like being unique," Susan tells her a few days later. 

The bearer bonds are safely located, Ilsa-Eva is hung back up in the agency's costume warehouse, and Susan is safely home, bags of Nando's piri-piri chicken from Nancy's favorite branch in Tooting in hand. 

"That's good," Nancy says, sopping up the extra sauce on her plate with the last piece of garlic bun. "Because you are."

"One of a kind," Susan says contentedly, patting her tummy with one hand and pulling Nancy in for a sticky, highly-seasoned kiss with the other. 

"That you are."


End file.
